Christmas Spirit

Some people say there’s no life after death. They’re wrong, and I’m living proof of that. Or should I say dead proof? Anyway, here I am. And here they are: ‘my’ family, all gathered round the table preparing to tuck into what I must say looks a wonderful spread.

Mr and Mrs Gibson, who run the place, are good people. I was like a part of the family for a couple of years before my untimely demise. They were very kind and always treated me with respect, unlike their son, Jem, who was often rude to me. He’s not a bad boy, just a little unruly, I suppose you’d say. He’s sitting next to his cousin Hannah – the first time I’ve ever seen her. She’s a nice-looking young girl.

Her parents are Harry and Carol, both of them a little – shall we say – rotund. They could do with skipping dinner, if the truth be told, but they have a glint in their eye that tells me they’ll be going for the ‘chomp till you drop’ approach.

Then we have Mrs Gibson’s parents – Jem and Hannah’s grandparents. They seem like nice folk, but they’re on their last legs by the looks of them and will be joining me sooner than they’d like, I reckon. I don’t know where Mr Gibson’s parents are – maybe they’ve already shuffled off this mortal coil and are in the place I’m heading for soon (it’ll be the good place because I never did a bad thing in my life).

It’s odd to be here floating around the table. You’d have thought that spirits might walk around like their living selves, but no – floating is what we do. And observing. For example, I can see that Jem is in for some disappointment on the amorous front – Hannah really isn’t interested, and I’m not sure that cousin-on-cousin in that way is really proper … although I saw a lot of that going on when I was alive.

“Alive”. It seems like an age ago, but it was just yesterday, and the end that I met was pretty violent (which is why I’m floating around here before moving up – them’s the rules, it seems). So how did I meet my end, you must be asking. Well, I’ll give you a chance to guess. Go one, have a think.

I’ll give you a big clue. Someone in this room killed me. Yes, you heard right. “Killed”. Need more time? Well, I haven’t got all day so I’ll tell you. It wasn’t Jem, although that act might fit his character. No, it was Mr Gibson. He woke me up yesterday morning and WHAM. I really didn’t know what hit me, except I know it was him, and I know that he said “sorry” as he did it.

I shouldn’t hold it against him, really – after all, he and the rest of the family treated me pretty well during my time here. But words are easy, and feelings are complicated, and I must admit that I was a little hurt – both physically and emotionally – at the way things turned out. I wonder: would it be too much to say that I felt betrayed? Is that too strong a word? Let me think about it a moment.

Yes, I think I can use that word. I do feel betrayed. After all, I gave them a lot of affection, and it seems a pretty shabby way to repay me. But it’s done, I suppose – water under the bridge, and all that. Hang on a mo’! They’re praying – at least Mr Gibson is praying, and the rest are listening. And well, I’ll be … he’s mentioning me! Wow! If spirits could blush. Now I’m touched.

The prayers are over (thank God) and they’re off! There’s a flurry of activity – dishes changing hands, potato being dolloped, vegetables being forked, sauces being spooned onto the side of plates. And now Mr Gibson is standing up and scraping two long carving knives together.

“Leg, wing or breast”, he asks his mother-in-law; she’s a ‘breast’ person, apparently. Mr Gibson takes one of the knives and slices boldly into my mortal remains.

And do you know what? It tickles!

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